


the awful edges where you end and i begin

by feistycadavers



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, Begging, Childhood Trauma, Come Eating, Crying, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Face Slapping, Headspace, Homophobic Language, Humiliation, M/M, Mild Blood, Mildly Dubious Consent, Objectification, Rimming, Spit As Lube, Verbal Abuse, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 15:20:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17428475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feistycadavers/pseuds/feistycadavers
Summary: “Look, I have this messed up verbal abuse kink thing from being bullied in high school and I don't get it but it's just what it is,” John says. “Can I go make coffee now?”Brian hums. “This is certainly an interesting development,” he says.or, john gets off on being called a faggot. brian is more than willing to indulge this.





	the awful edges where you end and i begin

**Author's Note:**

> you read the tags and you read the summary and you clicked on it so i'm not going to bother defending myself for this because you're just as much of a pervert as i am. that or you read all my shit, in which case i'm sorry i called you a pervert. you probably are one though. that's okay. i consider it a compliment.
> 
> anyway there's probably discourse to be had about this kink (which i don't even know what it's called, but it's basically just homophobic verbal humiliation, so), especially since i'm not a gay man, so it's not really my word to reclaim, but honestly? it's porn and it's not real so frankly i don't think it's inherently a bad thing. issa kink. kink ain't a bubble or anything but y'know. we all know what matters is how you actually treat people in real life.
> 
> the childhood trauma tagged is homophobic bullying. stuff i wanna mention but there isn't a freeform tag for it: there's clothed partner/naked partner, consensual slut shaming, come wasting, anal sex without prep or proper lube and bleeding from anal sex, a butthole being referred to as a pussy, boot licking, and major disrespect kink. like i don't know how else to describe it. it's brian purposefully disregarding john's personal comfort. there are small mentions of a certain unsanitary kink, but i don't want to spoil it and it's far from enough to tag, so check the end notes for the content warning in case you think it might trigger you. but this IS a verbal degradation and humiliation fic, so filth kinda comes along with it.
> 
> one more note: i write within RACK (risk-aware consensual kink) guidelines, not SSC (safe sane consensual) guidelines. some of the shit that happens in this fic is blatantly unsafe and i would not recommend doing if it's not something you're aware of the risks of.
> 
> that's all i have to say really.
> 
> title from the horror of our love by ludo.

John's not one to obsess over the shit Brian says to him. He really isn't. He's never gotten his feelings hurt by Brian, not even once – most of what comes out of Brian's mouth is bullshit, anyway. Brian's the type to throw insults with no real meaning behind them. Besides, for all the times he's called John a cocksucker, one would think he'd see the irony in it.

 

But it's well into November now, and John's still hung up on something Brian said on his birthday, back in July. They were in Japan, a couple days before one of the very last Mechanical shows, and John can still hear Brian's voice, infuriatingly casual as he said the only three words he said to John that day.

 

Not _those_ three, though. What Brian said was “happy birthday, _faggot_.”

 

John's been staying in one of the guest bedrooms in Brian's house for a few weeks now, writing with him through most of the nights. It was refreshing and inspiring to work with someone like Brian. New. They'd only written one song together before, but that was mostly Scott's work anyway. But this is all new shit. Good shit. John had unfortunately and unintentionally adopted Brian's sleep schedule, which is generally something like waking up at approximately four in the afternoon and not going to sleep till well after the sun had risen. John works surprisingly well in the pre-dawn hours, he's discovered, given he's well caffeinated.

 

To Brian's credit, at least he gives John occasional privacy. Which is good, because John's been like a goddamn dog in heat. Brian would never let him live it down if he knew that in addition to them sleeping together nearly daily, John was jerking off incessantly: at least nightly, if not twice a day – once during his morning (afternoon?) shower and again when he climbs into bed, and that was on top of all the sex.

 

Because, well. If John's brain stops writing music or focusing on whatever task is at hand, it just goes right back to those three stupid words.

 

Happy birthday _faggot_.

 

_Faggot. Faggot. Faggot._

 

Brian's well aware John's into fucked up shit. He's fucked him while threatening to cut him open chin to cock, knife in hand. But this. _This._

 

It's _sensitive_. Sure, Brian got bullied in school, but he got his ass kicked for being a weirdo, not a _faggot_ . He was the weirdo from Christian school. But if you go to an affluent high school in Grosse Pointe, Michigan, and show up looking anything less than prep school finest or masculine jock, you don't get your ass beat. You get shoved into lockers and called a _faggot_.

 

John's internalized a billion kinks from childhood. Everything from preferring thick, big-titted girls because he watched too much _Hee Haw_ to owning a silicone tentacle dildo because he kinda wants to fuck the _Creature From The Black Lagoon._  But those weren't from real life things – just TV. John grew up on TV. It was the seventies.

 

But now, in 1999, he really can't shake this _faggot_ thing.

 

It's stupid. He doesn't wanna talk to Brian about it. He's fine jerking off about it, three fingers in his ass, Brian's voice in his head, “faggot”.

 

//

 

John's alarm goes off at 9 AM. He's been asleep two hours at most. He skips his shower, gets dressed, teases his hair. His under eye circles are dark. He covers them with red eyeshadow.

 

John packs up his guitar and grabs his keys. He goes into Brian's room, pitch black, blackout curtains drawn shut. John can sort of make out Brian's frame, passed out under a red sheet.

 

“Brian,” John says. No response. He clears his throat, tries a little louder. “Brian.”

 

The sheets stir a bit. Brian's head comes up, looks at John in the doorway.

 

“I'm going to Burbank to film that Ibanez thing,” John says. “I'll call you if I'm gonna be later than six.”

 

Brian makes a noise, so John takes that to mean “no problem, see you later, drive safe”. Brian always tells John to drive safe.

 

“What're you wearing?” Brian asks, voice groggy. John glances down at himself. It's nothing out of the ordinary – black mesh shirt, faux leather pants that might actually be Brian's, boots, his fur coat, choker. Red eyeshadow, red lipstick, red nail polish. Brian snorts. “You look like a faggot.”

 

John's throat is suddenly very dry. He'll grab a diet coke from the fridge on the way out.

 

“See you later faggot. Have a good time being a faggot today,” Brian remarks. “Close my fuckin' door, the light's getting in.”

 

“Bye,” John says stiffly, accidentally slamming Brian's door in the process. He's gotten hard instantly. He forgets to make his fridge pit stop and certainly does not have time to jerk off before he leaves – he's in the Hollywood hills and even if traffic is slightly less terrible than usual he's still on track to be fifteen minutes early, which is late by John Lowery Standards. He hurries out the door.

 

//

 

John gets home a bit after four o'clock. He hears Brian in the kitchen, and when he peeks in, he's eating a bowl of cereal at the table. Brian glances up, ink black hair sticking up at odd angles.

 

“Did you just wake up?” John asks. Brian shrugs, which John takes as a yes.

 

John goes back to the guest room – well, his room, for now – to take his jacket and boots off and unpack his guitar. It'd been a relatively uneventful day of filming for an ad spot; there was more sitting around and playing than actually filming. He'd gotten a coffee on the way home, since he's fucking exhausted. On that thought, he goes to turn back to go start up another pot, since he'll surely be up till dawn with Brian again, and he starts when Brian's long silhouette is in the doorway. He reaches in to turn the bedroom light on.

 

“Hey,” Brian says, voice still a little tired. “Are you mad at me?”

 

“I. What?” John asks, baffled, because why would he be mad at him, and also why would Brian care if he were mad at him?

 

“Look, I'm sorry I called you that earlier,” Brian says. John's mouth falls open a bit, either at the shock of Brian apologizing for something or being so abruptly reminded of that. _Right_.

 

“Oh, no,” John says, eager to move on. “It's fine. I wasn't offended.”

 

“Alright,” Brian says. “You just got all weird and rushed out so I wanted to make sure I didn't for real bring up any shit. I'm an asshole when I'm tired.”

 

“You're _always_ an asshole,” John remarks. Brian cracks a smile and John forces one.

 

“Fair,” Brian says, “and you do kinda dress a faggot, so I wasn't wrong.” His tone is light, clearly in jest, but it stings a little. In a nice way. “You're sure you're alright with that word, because you look like you just smelled one of Bug's farts.” John has to laugh at that – Rose's dog was worse than any human.

 

“I'm fine, honest, it's just, uh,” John says, hesitating. “I don't wanna talk about it. It's weird.” John tries to turn back to grab his guitar so they can go downstairs to write, but Brian grabs his shoulder, turns him back.

 

“You like it,” Brian says. It's not a question; there's no asking for confirmation. John whines, drops his head back.

 

“I said I don't wanna talk about it,” he says, dodging the subject. Brian blocks the doorway, though, and clearly has no intention of moving. “If I tell you I'm into it will you leave me alone?” John asks, sighing.

 

“Maybe,” Brian says. So, no. But worth a shot.

 

“Look, I have this messed up verbal abuse kink thing from being bullied in high school and I don't get it but it's just what it is,” John says. “Can I go make coffee now?”

 

Brian hums. “This is certainly an interesting development,” he says.

 

“No, it's not,” John says, trying to step around him, but Brian promptly shoves him up against the wall next to the door, hands in his mesh shirt.

 

“Fuckin' queer,” Brian says, voice low and close to John's face. John bites his mouth shut. “I should've known that's why you always go out looking like a fuckin' fairy. You're probably _dying_ for some straight dude to tell you you're a fag. Is that true?”

 

“Brian,” John whines, trying to squirm away, but Brian slots his leg between John's, wedges his thigh up against his erection.

 

“Tell me, John,” Brian says. Brian is very, very hard to disobey when he looks at John like that.

 

“I-” John stutters out, and Brian's thigh pushes harder into his crotch, a jab of pain shooting up through his guts. “Mmf. Yeah, I do.”

 

“What are you John?” Brian asks, smacking his hand hard across John's face. John nods quickly, permission for Brian to do it again, and he does, hard enough that John feels the instant flush of blood under the skin.

 

“I'm a faggot,” John says, as Brian's fingers smear at his lipstick and push into his mouth. He rubs his fingers over John's tongue, gathers some spit.

 

“Tell me,” Brian demands, pulling his hand out and slapping him again, wet fingers stinging.

 

“I'm a cock sucking faggot,” John says, eyes glassy.

 

“Stay here,” Brian says, hand moving down to John's neck, pinning him to the wall. Brian drops his thigh from John's crotch but quickly lifts it again, kneeing him sharply. John gasps in pain, air catching in his throat. Brian knees him again, really laying into it. “You suck a lot of cocks with this nasty faggot mouth?” John whimpers audibly.

 

“Yes sir,” John says, as Brian knocks the air out of him with another knee to his balls.

 

“How many?” Brian asks.

 

“I-” John chokes out, eyes widening at Brian. _Fuck_. “I don't know sir-”

 

“You _don't know?_ ” Brian asks, grinning this horrible smile, free hand grabbing John's cock through leather pants, too tight to feel good. John gasps, mouth hanging open, too stunned at his own realization that he doesn't know to even answer. “Christ, you're even more of a faggot than I thought. Names. Go.” John's face goes hot pink, shakes his head incredulously. “That wasn't a suggestion; it was an order.” John swallows hard against Brian's palm.

 

“You,” John starts, voice thin. Brian rolls his eyes.

 

“Knew that, you useless faggot,” Brian says, smacking John hard again. John takes a moment to collect himself, and Brian just waits.

 

“Ginger,” John says, clearing his throat, voice strangled in Brian's hand. Brian's quiet, lets him continue. “Pogo. Rob after we shot the 2wo video, James, loads of guys in high school and when I moved to LA, _fuck_ – I don't know how many. Robin. Dave. Danny. Trent-”

 

Brian's hand tightens around John's neck, shuts him up before he can finish. “You always suck off the frontmen who hire you and the producers who make your albums?” he remarks. “You're just a cum receptacle. Something men use to jerk off with. _Disgusting_.” Brian shoves his fingers back into John's mouth, embarrassment burning his face. “You don't even know how many dicks have been in here. I wouldn't be surprised if you've made a few bucks with this whore mouth.” John blinks furiously, trying to keep back the tears, shame stinging at his eyes. Brian smears John's lipstick across his cheek with his fingers, holds John's jaw. “Do you want me to use it?” The question is softer, a genuine check in.

 

“Yes, sir,” John says, voice quiet. Brian takes a breath, lets go of John's neck, pushes him down by his shoulders. John slides down the wall, and Brian grabs him again by the hair, shoves his crotch into his face, effectively pinning him between the wall and his erection.

 

“Can you even breathe like that?” Brian asks, and John makes a muffled noise into his jeans, neither a yes or no. Brian really lays into it, grinding into his face, not unlike he'd done onstage before. “Faggots don't really need to breathe, do they,” Brian says, but he steps back anyway, red lipstick smeared on his fly. He starts to undo his belt, one hand, the other still fisted in John's hair. “I don't think I want your dirty queer mouth on my cock anymore after knowing where it's been. My own sweet little John, a common variety high school locker room faggot. Did you get gang banged by the football team?” Brian remarks. John can't help the laugh that slips out.

 

“No, but I jerked off about it,” he admits, a few tears slipping. Brian wipes them away.

 

“You're a disgrace,” Brian says, voice sweet despite the sentiment.

 

“I know,” John says, smiling.

 

“You must want this bad,” Brian says. He grabs the hard line of cock through black fabric, and John has to clench his fists to restrain himself. “Yeah, I bet you do. I can see it. Fags are like fuckin' coke fiends when it comes to dick.”

 

“You sure you don't want me to suck it?” John asks, giving Brian his very best puppy eyes.

 

“I don't know,” Brian remarks. “I'm pretty disgusted at how dirty your mouth must be.” John squirms.

 

“Please,” John murmurs.

 

“Please _what?_ ” Brian asks, as he's pulling everything down at once, his cock springing free. John gasps audibly.

 

“Please can I suck your cock?” John asks, voice sweet, eyes tied to the length in front of him, inches from his mouth.

 

“Why do you want it so bad?” Brian asks.

 

“Because I'm a fag,” John says, glancing up for Brian's reaction. There isn't one.

 

“I'm not convinced,” Brian says.

 

“Please,” John whines. “I need your cock in my mouth so bad because I'm a dirty cock sucking faggot and I need your come.” John leans in, puts a hand on Brian's boot.

 

“Don't fucking _touch_ me faggot,” Brian says, jerking his boot out from under John's touch.

 

“Fuck, please, sir, _please_ I need your cock so bad,” John begs, his eyeshadow starting to run at the corners, lipstick smeared across his cheek.

 

“No,” Brian says, turning around. “You get my asshole.” John whines, starts to lean in, but Brian grabs his hair and pulls his face in anyway. “Lick it, queer.” John moans appreciatively, laving his tongue into him, tasting sweat and clean skin. At least Brian had the decency to shower. John suspects he must’ve planned to jump his bones as soon as he got back. John brings his hands up to spread Brian open, half-expecting him to tell him not to touch again, but Brian allows it. He lets out a shaky sigh as John licks into him, tongue working. Brian would never admit he actually likes this - that it’s not entirely just to deny John his cock, not just for whatever fucked up game this is. He fists his hand tighter in John’s hair, yanking him back. “Watch your hands, fag; you’re getting greedy there,” Brian says, while also making no effort whatsoever to remove John’s hands. John just buries his face in further, mouth hot and wet, feels Brian’s ass start to give a little under his tongue. John licks deeper, slipping inside, just barely. “That’s pretty disgusting, faggot,” Brian continues, but his voice falters a little, obviously enjoying it. “I can’t believe you’d actually put your tongue in somebody’s shithole. You’re even grosser than I thought.” John ignores the irony of the statement considering Brian has his face in John’s ass more nights than not. Brian pulls John’s head back and John whines, but Brian turns back around to face him, cock swinging inches from his face, and John’s mouth opens reflexively, wanting it.

 

“Please,” John begs, but Brian holds John’s head to the wall, palm across his forehead. He arches his hips forward, dick bobbing closer to John’s mouth.

 

“Come get it,” Brian says, and John tries to lean forward, but Brian doesn’t let him. John stretches his tongue out and Brian tenses, lifts his cock just out of reach. “Ah ah ah. Almost got it.” Brian’s leaking, a bead of precome, and fuck, John wants it. He licks at nothing, reaching, but Brian doesn’t allow it. “You must not want that cock very bad,” Brian remarks.

 

“Fuck, please,” John whimpers. “I’ve never wanted a cock worse in my life.”

 

“You think I care what a useless faggot wants?” Brian asks, smacking John hard with his free hand. It’s his wrong hand, so the slap lands a little high, and it knocks John off balance. It probably would have knocked him over if Brian wasn’t pinning his skull to the drywall. “Faggots like you are a fuckin’ waste of good oxygen. You’d probably sit at a glory hole in some queer club and suck whatever nasty ass dick came through it just to swallow a load.” John looks up at Brian, mouth hung open, red used lips, black mascara and red eyeshadow streaking down his cheeks from his earlier tears. Brian shoves him, steps back, hikes his pants back up over his ass. “Take that fucking stupid gay ass outfit off and get on the fucking bed.” He pauses. “Keep the choker on.”

 

John sits there for a moment, takes a breath. Brian doesn’t rush him. He stands at the end of the bed, arms crossed, waiting for him. John stays on the floor, takes his shirt off, puts it next to his boots he took off earlier. When he kneels to pull his pants and underwear down, he’s hard, and Brian sort of snort laughs.

 

“Pathetic,” he mumbles from above John.

 

John sits back, leaves the rest of his clothes, and crawls to the bed, climbing up onto it. He feels especially naked considering the fact that Brian’s still fully clothed save for his open fly and his cock pulled out of his underwear. John stays on all fours, looks back over his shoulder at Brian.

 

“Are you presenting yourself like a bitch in heat?” Brian asks, bringing a hand down hard on John’s ass. He flinches, grits his teeth. “Jesus. Fucking whore.” John feels the bed dip under him as Brian knees up onto the mattress, pulls John’s hips back into his, his cock pushing John’s ass apart. “Listen, faggot,” Brian says, “if my dick comes outta your ass with a single speck on it, anything less than fucking _pristine_ , I will beat you _unconscious_. Fags' asses always need to be clean and ready to be fucked by men. Understand?” A brief flash of panic sparks through John’s stomach, but he nods quickly.

 

“Yes sir; I promise it’ll be clean,” John says, despite the fact that he’s been out all day and hasn’t had _time_ for that. He fists his hands in the sheet under him.

 

“Hold your pussy open, faggot,” Brian orders. John reaches back, grabs handfuls of his ass, pulls it open. Brian spits and John flinches reflexively. “Damn, your pussy’s clenching it wants my dick so bad.” Brian presses up against his hole, pushing, and John sort of realizes Brian fully intends to go in dry. Fuck. _Fuck_. John bears down to let him in and Brian lays it into him, thumb pressing his head in, and John’s body jerks as it slips in. “Don’t fucking try to push me out,” Brian grits out, nails digging into John’s hip.

 

“I’m not, sir,” John chokes. Brian forces his way in, the pain of the stretch tearing through him, making him sob once. John could safe word, could always stop him, but maybe Brian’s words are ringing a little too true because he’s loving it. Brian leans over him, plants his hands on John’s shoulder blades and starts fucking him open. John cries out, letting go of his ass to grab at the sheets, tears coming to his eyes again.

 

“Worthless fucking come rag,” Brian says low under his breath, pounding into him. John feels as if he’s being ripped open, the rush of adrenaline and endorphins getting him as close to high as he’ll ever be. John smiles against the mattress, even as he feels the tears spill over his lashes as Brian uses him. Brian’s being careless, chasing his own orgasm, disregarding John’s comfort and pleasure entirely.

 

“Thank you for using my fag hole sir,” John moans out, sniffing when his nose starts to run. Brian’s fucking him so hard the loud smack of his hips hitting John’s ass seems to echo off the walls. Brian grabs John’s hair, wrenches his head back, an uncomfortable arch.

 

“Tell me what the fuck you are,” Brian demands.

 

“A disgusting dirty faggot,” John sobs, crying in earnest now.

 

“Tell me why you deserve my load,” Brian says. He spits on John’s back.

 

“Because I made you come, sir,” John says, grabbing onto the headboard to keep from falling forward into it.

 

“Wrong, dumbass,” Brian says, yanking his cock out of him, and John nearly screams as the pain rips through him. He smells something like wet pennies. “ _You_ didn’t make me come. I just masturbated using your pussy, you stupid fucking queer! God, why are you faggots always so fucking dumb? All you think about is fuckin’ cock.” John sort of collapses over onto his side, feeling blood slick behind his balls. There’s streaks of red on Brian’s cock as he’s jerking himself off. “Go on and touch your tiny little fag dick then,” he orders, and John does as is instructed of him, and Brian walks away from the bed as John’s working his cock, precome more than enough for lube. Brian grabs one of John’s boots off the floor and tosses it onto the bed, standing over it, and instantly John knows what he’s doing, even through the haze of tears. He watches as Brian growls, comes, ropes of come streaking black leather boots. He jacks himself through it, wringing out every drop onto John’s boot. John’s shuddering, already close to coming too.

 

“Please, sir, can I come,” John chants out, and Brian stumbles back, points at the boot.

 

“You come, you spit your fuckin’ jizz on that boot,” he says, and John pulls it over, too weak to knee himself over to it. He moans, his cock spilling over his fingers and onto the buckles and straps, choking out his gratitude. He pants, in a haze, brings his hand to his mouth, starts to lick it clean. Once that’s cleaned, he doubles himself over to lap both his and Brian’s come from his boot, laving his tongue across it. John’s dizzy from his orgasm and the high of pain, the high of Brian’s words, and a grin splits his face.

 

“Holy moly,” John giggles, soaring. Brian is quiet. John glances up at him, and Brian’s staring, eyes wide at him. Brian looks down at his hand, watercolored rusty from John’s blood.

 

“John,” Brian says. “John, I--”

 

“Come here,” John says, reaching a hand to him, and Brian takes it, shakily lowering himself down onto the bed next to him. John shifts over onto him, arm wrapping around his middle, face nesting into his neck. Brian doesn’t reciprocate.

 

“John.”

 

“It’s okay,” John says.

 

“I made you bleed,” Brian says.

 

“And I could’ve stopped you at any point,” John says. He lifts his head, presses his mouth to Brian’s jaw, the little bit of lipstick left on his mouth leaving a mark.

 

“I went too far,” Brian says, sitting up, trying to pull away from John. “I said too much; I shouldn’t have -- it wasn’t true; I don’t think that of you--”

 

“I know,” John says, bringing his hand to Brian’s face, and Brian flinches. “It’s not real. It’s okay.” John doesn’t let Brian pull away, keeps him close.

 

“I made you cry,” Brian whispers, as if making John cry is the most heinous of crimes.

 

“It felt good,” John murmurs. “Brian. Brian. I would have stopped you if you went too far or said too much.” Brian swallows visibly, nods once. “Okay. Will it make you feel better to take care of me?”

 

“Yeah,” Brian says, nodding. John sits up so Brian can stand, and Brian disappears into the bathroom for a moment. The tap is turned on, the sound of Brian washing his hands, then a drawer opening. When Brian comes back in, there’s no traces of blood on him, and he has a wet washcloth.

 

“Hey,” John says, smiling, glassy-eyed.

 

“I didn’t want to wait for the water to get hot, so it’s kinda lukewarm,” Brian says. He’s speaking at normal volume again, voice even. “I guess I should probably clean your face off before your ass.” His typical sarcastic drone. He's okay. John laughs once.

 

“Or at least get me a clean one for my face afterwards,” he remarks.

 

Brian sits, takes John’s head in his hand, gingerly wiping away makeup tears and streaks of lipstick. John closes his eyes.

 

“Did you really get bullied for being bisexual?” Brian asks. It’s probably good to decompress and talk about it. John blushes behind the towel.

 

“At my high school, being into guys was social suicide,” he says, as Brian wipes at his cheek. “I got outed at a party when I tried to sneak out with a guy and everyone assumed I was gay. So that was that.” Brian nods. He’s not a stranger to being ostracized, both in childhood and adulthood.

 

“I’m going to clean this up down here,” Brian says, gesturing vaguely at John’s lower half, and John nods, turning over so Brian can reach. Brian’s breath catches audibly. “Fuck,” he whispers.

 

“It’s okay,” John insists, reaching to put a hand on Brian’s thigh. John winces a bit as Brian cleans him up, and the washcloth is tinted red-brown with dried blood when he sees it again. Brian chucks it into the open bathroom. He looks over John’s body, thin and pale with waves of color down his arms, and John reaches for him. They rarely kiss. It’s sort of an event when they do. But Brian leans over him, slots his mouth with John’s, gentle, careful. “So, I’m kinda running on like two hours of sleep, and I could really use a nap,” John says against Brian's lips. “But I also wanna watch _Planet of the Apes_.” Brian sighs.

 

“How come you get to pick the movie when you’re just gonna sleep through it?” Brian asks, getting up, offering John his hands to help him off the bed. John stands on shaky legs, hissing at the pain in his knees and his hips, rolls his shoulders.

 

“Because you feel bad for giving me exactly what I wanted,” John remarks. Brian looks at him for a long moment, then rolls his eyes.

 

“Fuck, fine,” Brian says. “I’ll make you that coffee after your nap.”

 

John sleeps as soundly as he ever has, wearing Brian’s shirt, tucked in his arms.

**Author's Note:**

> CW: mentions of very light scat play, specifically dirty anal. the anal isn't actually dirty; it's just mentioned.
> 
> skold.tumblr.com


End file.
